Too Wicked to Keep (11 page)

“Do you plan to stick around Chicago once you get the painting for Abby?”

He leaned back and spread his arms wide on the back of the couch. “Not a chance.”

She pursed her lips, which confused him. He would have bet big money that she wanted him out of town as soon as possible.

“And Abby's okay with that?”

He chuckled, understanding. Erica didn't want him around, but she'd put up with him if that's what it took to keep her friend happy.

“She knows who I am. Probably better than I know myself.”

Erica made a final pass from one end of the room to the other, then slipped her hand into her pocket and took out a business card. “This is the woman who is catering the event. I've already called and told her that Scott Ripley was interested in doing a walk-through with her, as he's planning to host a huge fundraiser for a motorcycle club he belongs to, one of those groups where weekend warriors raise funds for charity by biking through big cities in their best polished leathers.”

Danny took the card, impressed by the woman's story telling skills. Unlike Abby, Erica Holt seemed to have a better handle on crafting plausible lies.

“Scott Ripley. Weekend warrior. Got it. Who is he?”

“Who is who?” she asked.

“This Ripley guy. You didn't just make him up.”

She cleared her throat and he suddenly saw the uptight, laced-up part of her personality that matched so well with Abby's. “A guy I used to know. First name I thought of.”

He smirked. “Wonder why that is.”

“Don't,” she warned. “Don't wonder anything about me. Just get in, get Abby's painting back for her and get out. I don't ordinarily condone thievery—”

“But since it was stolen in the first place, you're willing to look in the other direction this one time.”

“I'd look in the other direction for Abby a thousand times if it meant she got what she deserved. And she deserves happiness. You agree with me on that, right?”

“Completely.”

“Good.”

And with that, she left. She must have met Abby in the hall, because he heard them talking for a few minutes before Abby came back into the apartment holding what looked like more than one day's worth of catalogs, bills and invitations. She wasn't smiling.

“She loved me, didn't she?” he asked.

“Hardly,” she replied. “But she's helping us and that's all that matters. She'd do anything for me.”

He nodded. “So would I, Abby. So would I.”

A
BBY HATED WAITING
.

Unable to deal with anyone invading her space while Danny was staying with her, she'd cancelled her housekeeper and expended her nervous energy dusting the furniture, emptying her dishwasher and trying to capture as much cat hair as possible with her broom and vacuum cleaner. He'd been gone for hours. First he'd borrowed her car, taking it into an area of the city she'd never once gone to while he constructed the disguise he needed to be Scott Ripley, a name that had shocked Abby to her core. Then he'd gone to his meeting with the caterer. He'd called her in between, but she was still a bundle of live wires. What if he got caught? What if he had the opportunity to take the painting during reconnaissance? Because once he had her grandmother's portrait, he'd have no other reason to stay in Chicago.

And she wasn't ready for him to leave.

She also wasn't ready to deal with why that was.

Instead, she focused on sweeping her balcony, and wondering why—of all the names Erica could have picked for Danny's cover—she'd gone with Scott Ripley.

The name wasn't made-up. It belonged to a guy that
Abby had gone to high school with, though he'd been a year younger, just like Erica. He must have recently responded to the invitation to their class reunion, because otherwise, Abby couldn't think of why he'd be on Erica's mind.

Just about every girl in the school had crushed on the infamous bad boy at one point or another, but Abby didn't remember Erica every mentioning him. They'd probably gossiped about which girl he'd made out with in the stairwell in the north building or what act of vandalism he'd been blamed for that week, but otherwise, she couldn't recall him ever coming up in conversation. Especially not since graduation.

Erica hadn't said anything about him coming to the reunion, but Abby supposed her best friend didn't tell her everything. And vice versa. Abby still hadn't told Erica the whole truth about Danny. They were both keeping secrets, something Abby vowed to rectify as soon as this mess was over.

Mess. Was that really how she'd categorize what was happening? So far, everything had moved along with smooth precision. She'd found Danny, a man who prided himself on being impossible to find. She'd convinced him to come back with her to Chicago and had even let down her guard long enough to explore the last vestiges of their powerful attraction. Now, they were on a narrow course to retrieve her painting and put that painful chapter of her life to rest.

So why wasn't she happy?

She was storing her broom in the closet by the front door when she heard the doorknob rattle. She tore open the door, ready to jump into Danny's arms, but she gasped at the sight of the man standing there. Blond hair, dark brown eyes, impeccable suit—he wasn't Danny.

Or was he?

He grinned, giving himself away. “Convincing, yes?”

She launched herself against his chest. “You've been gone forever!”

“Hey, hey,” he said, moving her inside the apartment and shutting the door behind her. “I hoped you'd miss me, but I was only on a fact-finding mission. You knew it might take all day.”

She walked in a tight circle around him, her hands shaking and her chest so tight, she feared her ribs might crack. “Did you see the painting? Is it mine? Do you think you can get it without getting caught?”

“Calm down,” he said, taking her by the elbow and leading her into the living room. Once there, he sat, then tugged her down onto his lap and kissed her. The minute his tongue tangled with hers, the flow of her adrenaline rush shifted. Worry and panic turned to relief, and then lust. He inched his fingers underneath the edge of her T-shirt, humming his appreciation when he realized she wasn't wearing a bra. He leaned her back against the couch, pulled up the shirt and was sucking her nipples like a starving man when she realized he hadn't answered a single one of her questions.

“Danny? You have to…tell me…what happened.”

He tweaked her nipple hard, sending a white-hot shard of need directly to her sex, which creamed in instant response. God, he owned her. Every inch of her skin was primed to his touch, prickling in anticipation of the pleasure he seemed determined to give.

“My reward first,” he murmured against her skin.

She tore her clothes away, but he only removed his jacket. She didn't care that she was coated in a thin layer of dust from all her housework—she only cared about
the hungry look in his eyes as he took her breasts in his mouth again, then slid his hand downward until his fingers met the wet and needful flesh between her legs.

“Oh, God,” she groaned.

Was it really this easy to get her off? How did he know just how to touch her? Just how to play her like a finely tuned instrument until she was singing with need.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” he crooned. “You're so hot. So tight.”

He slipped a second finger inside her, curling his thumb against her swollen clit as his mouth crashed against hers. She tore her fingers through his hair, surprised at the stiff texture. But the increased tempo of his hand brought every wayward thought into sharp focus. She could think of nothing but taking the pleasure he offered. Nothing but need. Nothing but…

She tossed her head from side to side, arching into him, pumping her pelvis wildly against his generous hand. The waves of release crashed through her and he held her, kissing her, crooning to her in words she couldn't process, until her powerful orgasm subsided.

He brushed a dozen sweet kisses across her temples and cheeks.

“Now, that's the way a man likes to be welcomed home,” he said.

“You're wicked,” she chastised, the heat in her body settling into her cheeks.

“But in a good way,” he corrected.

She licked her lips. “In a very good way.”

He leaned over the edge of the couch and retrieved her clothes. “I never realized reconnaissance missions made me so horny. Must have been because you were waiting for me.”

“You're full of yourself right now, aren't you?”

His grin was such a potent combination of confidence and satisfaction that she thought it was a sin to behold it.

“I am, I really am. I found the painting. Saw it in the man's study. It's the one I took, I'm certain. And getting it back is going to be a snap.”

While she put her clothes back on, Danny filled her in on all the details. The man's house had decent security, but nothing he hadn't seen before. The biggest challenge would be disabling the security cameras in a way that would allow him time to retrieve the painting before any guards intercepted him.

“This isn't a high-tech museum or bank vault, both of which I've breached. I mean, let's be honest, the painting is valuable, but he's not going to spend more than its worth to protect it. The house is a rental, and according to the housekeeper, he hasn't been there very long. This is going to be a breeze. By tomorrow, the painting will be yours.”

Her hands froze as she retied the strings on her yoga pants. “Tomorrow?”

He unknotted his tie, then folded it over the edge of the couch and spread his arms out and relaxed, looking every inch the triumphant king of the world. “The man of the house left his calendar open on his laptop. He's going to be out tomorrow night. And I'm going to get you back your painting.”

Abby forced herself to smile. This was supposed to be good news. She was supposed to be overjoyed that Danny's initial exploration of Liebe's house had resulted in verification that Liebe had her painting, and that her seasoned thief of a lover saw no major obstacles to retrieving it. But all she could think about was the fact
that in a little over twenty-four hours, Danny would be leaving her, possibly for good.

 

S
TRIPPED DOWN TO HIS
boxer-briefs, Danny adjusted the shades in the guest room to mute the sunlight from outside. He moved a chair and end table into a corner, then turned up the volume on the clock radio beside the bed, which he'd tuned to play white noise. The room was awash in sounds of the ocean, and when he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, he could practically smell the salty sea air.

Abby had made some excuse about having errands to run, so he'd left her to it. He preferred to prep for a job alone. He'd managed to keep his mind on his work while in Liebe's house, but the minute he'd seen Abby in the doorway wearing dusty clothes and sweating a little from what looked like housework, his brain had turned from felony to fantasy in a heartbeat. But he hadn't wanted to take her—he'd just wanted to make her come. He'd wanted to taste her skin, wanted to taste her delicious breasts and feel the convulsions of her orgasm at his hands. The whole thing left him hard as a rock, but the pain was good.

And he was going to have to get used to it.

Part of him was disappointed that the operation was going to be so easy, not that he'd expected much of a challenge. The painting was valuable, but not priceless. It was a curiosity, really, worth little to anyone but specialized art deco collectors and speculators trading on Pierre-Louis's increasing popularity. He was an
artiste du jour
whose importance mattered more to Abby than to the art world at large.

Abby, whom he would soon abandon.

He'd already arranged for his transportation. He'd
used cash from an offshore account to buy a non descript Honda Civic he'd parked in a lot he could access easily from Liebe's rented home. He'd scoped out the security cameras at nearby businesses and had put together a route that would allow for a quick and unnoticed escape. He'd set the clothes he needed aside and had packed a go-bag that would ensure he could change his looks several times between here and Detroit, where he'd ditch the car, alter his appearance and then board a train to another destination, likely Las Vegas. He had a safe place to hide out there, and once the coast was clear, he'd move on to San Francisco, where he'd deposit the painting in his father's old vault and then take off for parts unknown.

He'd already called Michael to make the arrangements. He'd been vague about his reasons, but his brother owed him, so he didn't ask a lot of questions. Danny figured that in the end, Michael didn't want to know what was going on. He didn't even ask if what Danny was doing was legal, though since he'd quit the FBI, maybe he no longer cared. Or maybe he did care—just more about Danny and his problems than about the law.

Danny mulled this over while he stretched. Normally before a job, he'd spend weeks training, but he had only about twenty-four hours to make sure his reflexes were at peak capacity. He'd studied countless techniques for honing his control over his musculature, speed and strength, from Ashtanga yoga to gymnastics to tai chi chuan. Ordinarily, he didn't go to bed at night or shower in the morning until after he'd gone through several rounds of one of them. But for the past few days, he'd opted instead to start and end his day making love with Abby.

He did his best to erase her from his brain, concentrating instead on the burn and pull of his muscles as he worked through repetitive motions that pushed his body to the limit. He twisted, contorted, lifted and split until he was dripping with sweat. He ended the workout only when his body was shaking so hard he could no longer stand. He relaxed facedown onto the carpet in a heap, promising he'd give himself only a short breather before he treated his battered body to an ice-cold shower.

“You look like you could use a rubdown.”

Unable to move his arms and legs just yet, Danny turned his face. Abby had slipped into the room unnoticed. Wearing a snug sports bra and shorts folded down across her hips so that they hinted at the sensual triangular shape of her pelvis, she sipped from a water bottle and looked as if she'd just gotten back from a workout of her own. Her hair, pulled up in a haphazard ponytail, dripped with sweat, and even in the darkening orange glow of the coming sunset, he could see the flushed pink of her skin.

He shoved his hands underneath him to push upward, but she stopped him.

“No, I'm serious. I've learned a lot from Svetlana.”

He did as she asked, relaxing into the towel he'd spread across the floor. “Not too much, I hope. I'm pretty sure she plays for the home team, if you know what I mean.”

Abby laughed as she disappeared into the guest bathroom and emerged with a couple of clean towels, one of which she took her time dousing with the icy water in her bottle. “She actually switch-hits, but I think it makes her aware of what feels good. Want me to show you?”

Danny instantly acquiesced, grabbing one of the rolled-up towels and wrapping his arms around it for
comfort. His time with Abby was slipping away, and though he was painfully aware that each time he made love to her, he was leaving her with a part of his soul he'd never get back, he couldn't resist.

She used the cool towel to wipe the sweat first from the back of his neck, then across his shoulders and down his spine, the temperature warming as she washed the salty slickness of his sweat off his skin. She then tossed the towel aside, straddled him and dug straight into the muscles in his shoulder blades.

She was right. She was good. He'd expected the massage to be more sensual than deep-tissue, but she hit all the right spots with the perfect amount of pressure. Her fingers dug into his tight sinews and worked out the last of the knots he hadn't broken free with his workout. After about fifteen minutes of pure heaven, he groaned and released the last bit of tension in his body. If she wanted him to move, she was going to have to get a spatula.

“I told you I was good,” she said.

He grunted his response. She laughed and, climbing off him, slid her hands beneath his side and flipped him over. He threw his arms out to the side, completely at her mercy.

“I can't move,” he muttered.

She waggled her eyebrows. “Good. You stay right where you are.”